The Gift
by Elessar1201
Summary: Christine learns about Spock's plans to leave the Enterprise. She only wants one thing before he goes. A missing moment from Lil Black Dog's story Six Degrees of Separation. This story won't make as much sense unless you read that first. /s/5844315/1/Six Degrees of Separation


Spock sealed the envelope and wrote _Captain James Kirk_ across the front. Each stroke of the pen cut him, left him bleeding inside. He bore it as he always did, stoically, taking refuge in the irrefutable logic of his choice, ignoring the ache in his throat and the slight tremble of his fingers. No trace of any pain or hesitation could be observed in the precise writing, of that he was sure. He swallowed against the swelling in his throat, an unconscious imitation of the only mannerism he allowed himself when Jim was in danger. Perhaps he was putting Jim in danger again, or perhaps he was saving them both.

He could not be certain; there was insufficient data.

He took the second letter, folded it methodically, and slid it into the other envelope.

…_I once called you friend…_

Holding it carefully between his fingers, he stepped to his door, hesitating briefly before the sensor registered him and whispered the panels open. The corridors were more empty than usual; most of the crew was at mess or preparing for shift change. The bridge duty roster ran through his mind, with the name and face of each officer assigned to each position. His last act as First Officer had been to adjust the bridge schedule to allow for his absence from this point on. Someone else would stand at the Science station scanner. Someone else would stand at Jim's right shoulder.

He closed his eyes briefly against the pain that thought created in his midsection, but continued to walk toward Sickbay, then slightly past it to the outer entrance of McCoy's office. He stepped through, the sensors admitting him readily. Memories swamped him, tempting him to linger, to relive in his mind those moments of camaraderie, affection, relief, and, indeed, aggravation between him and his two friends.

_Mr. Spock, you consider Captain Kirk and yourself brothers?_

He turned away before a second had passed, turning sharply on his boot heel. He placed the envelope on McCoy's desk, then walked briskly, not back to the corridor but through the door leading to Sickbay. He entered the empty ward, as dimly lit and empty as a church at night, and a waterfall of emotions poured through him, so many different streams of them he could not sort them out, only stand against them as best he could. He stumbled forward and braced himself against the nearest bed.

Perhaps more than anywhere else on the ship except the bridge, here was the place where those sacred moments had been forged-one of them lying on the biobed, one keeping vigil in the chair next to it, and one hovering over the prone body, endlessly active, instruments scanning up and down the injured comrade. This hall of healing had been the place where wounds of the heart had been opened, drained of their power, and healed.

_Captain Kirk speaks somewhat figuratively and with undue emotion. However, what he says is logical, and I do, in fact, agree with it._

He drew his hand over the surface where Jim had so recently lain.

_T'hy'la. Bonded in battle, time and again._

"Mr. Spock?"

He stood quickly, rigidly. The chaos inside was far from calmed, but he reached deep for any shred of Vulcan discipline he had left and gathered it around himself like a tattered cloak. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned smoothly.

"Ms. Chapel." There, his voice sounded nearly normal.

And yet, she gasped. Her eyes widened, her hand fluttered to her chest, and he could faintly detect the quickening of her heartbeat. All physiological signs of human distress. Most perplexing.

After a few heartbeats, she took a deep breath, raised her chin, and dropped her hand to her side. Her kind-but-cool professional demeanor slipped into place, and he arched an eyebrow in an effort to conceal his gratitude.

"Are you all right, sir?"

_No. Not at all all right._

"Of course. If you'll excuse me."

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

He walked stiffly, efficiently, to the door and returned to his quarters.

8~8~8~8

_What happened to him?_

She'd studied Spock's face for five years, learned his extremely subtle expressions and cues. She'd seen him at the verge of death and had even come to appreciate his dry and understated sense of humor. Since the time she'd offered to share her mind with him, when Henoch had control of his body, she'd sometimes sensed something more…distantly, so faint she'd often wonder if it was her imagination or wistful thinking.

But that connection was hardly necessary to know that things had gone terribly wrong for Spock within the last week. For one thing, the Captain had been here in Sickbay, and except for that one late-night visit while the Captain slept, Spock hadn't.

How many nights had she seen him sit still in that chair next to the biobed, anguished and alert, watching over the Captain's body as it rested, recovered, restored itself through medicine or magic yet again. Spock would hover over the Captain, McCoy would hover over Spock _and_ the Captain, and Christine would hover over them all-far enough in the background that they didn't think of her, but close enough to see every detail.

But she'd never seen Spock look like _this_. And the small space deep in her mind that he still occupied felt shredded and bloody.

She crossed the room to the biobed Spock had just walked away from. The mattress was still warm where his hands had pressed against it, his higher temperature affecting the material for longer than a human's would. She bent down and pressed her cheek to the warm spot.

Had his mother died? His father? He was supposed to have had a "wife" somewhere, that beautiful, cold Vulcan woman. That had ended as badly as it could have, and he had never mentioned her again, but there had also been some sort of mind bonding there…had something happened to her? Not that he would _care_, but would it affect him?

She stood again and moved toward her desk. _No,_ she decided. He'd experience it, maybe, but he'd absorb any emotional echoes of the blow. Because he _wouldn't_ care. _She_ wouldn't cause his voice to grind out of his throat like he'd been screaming for hours, or his rich baritone to go hoarse and rough.

No, there was only one person who could provoke that look of-she sat and dropped her head into her hand, unable to find the words even in her own mind. Loss. Grief. Devastation. Spock was shattered underneath his skin, and she doubted he'd ever be whole again. He was the strongest man she'd ever known, and he was broken.

The only person who could break him like that was his brother-at-arms. Captain Kirk.

_Get the hell out of here. I can't stand the sight of you._

She rested her head on her arms and wept.

8~8~8~8

He was grateful that he had kept the room sparsely decorated. The shuttlecraft he had scheduled was undergoing its monthly maintenance check, and would not be available to leave the hangar until 0100 hours or even later, so he'd have time to do everything properly. To remove all traces of himself from the _Enterprise_ and from Jim Kirk.

Fortunately, there was little to do, but he was so weary the thought of taking on any significant task overwhelmed him. It was not because he hadn't slept since the events surrounding DeSalle's death; no, a Vulcan had enough control over his metabolism that he could simply will himself to endure until the time when he chose to sleep. And his weariness was not from the almost total lack of food he had consumed over the same set of days, or the hours on end he had spent working out in the ship's weight room, knowing he would not run into Jim because McCoy had forbidden it. It was only logical; the sturdily constructed machines could take it if he sometimes lost his grip on the witches' brew of pain and guilt bubbling like acid inside him.

…_destructive, dangerous to those around me._

No, his fatigue came from the constant effort of holding himself back, of holding Jim out, when every cell in his body ached to open the link, let Jim feel his repentance, and entreat his Captain to let him stay by his side a little longer.

_You? You belong by his side, as if you've always been there and always will._

His head throbbed and his stomach muscles ached with the effort of keeping the link closed and keeping his own emotions mastered. He dared not seek out his fellow officers to offer his good-byes and well-wishes, and he knew that in their inexplicable regard for him, they would be hurt, perhaps even angry. Cognizant of their pain, he still could not do it, though he could hear his diplomatic father's voice urge him to leave his situation on a positive note, in case he needed to build on those relationships in the future.

He stripped off his soft velour shirt, folded it neatly, and laid it on the stack of others identical to it. Even that act was more than he was up to, but he forced himself to continue, now clad in only his black trousers and undershirt. He reached up to pull down his weapons, the traditional instruments of hand-to-hand combat, hand-to-hand death, at which he had been so successful. He had indicated to the Captain that they reminded him of his own planet's martial tradition, much as Jim's collection of previous incarnations of the _Enterprise_ had done for him, but he had put them up the second year of the mission to remind himself what he could become, and what he must never be.

In how many ways would he hurt everyone he cared about? DeSalle, in whom he'd felt an almost paternal pride, was dead by Spock's own choice-morally speaking, by Spock's own hand. Both of his parents, his fellow officers, and his two dearest friends…even Zarabeth, so long dead, left alone in that wilderness to face whatever consequences would come of that short, passionate love. And Leila, so young and innocent, so infatuated with science and with him. Even T'Pring, whom he had released so easily, so gratefully, without a thought until recently of her loneliness or her embarrassment at being bonded to a man who didn't enter his first pon farr until he was in his thirties.

And, of course, that one who-the chime to the door rang. He shook his head and glanced at the clock. He had been sitting in this chair, "wallowing," as McCoy would call it, for point five six hours. He must be efficient. He must not lose time, because Jim would search for him and he must not be found.

The buzzer sounded again. Spock sat up straight and removed any expression from his features.

"Come."

8~8~8~8

"Computer."

In the dim light of the office, the computer console lit up. Christine started to speak again, then changed her mind.

"Terminate, computer."

She got up from her desk and walked quietly into McCoy's office. Sitting down in his chair, she began again.

"Computer."

The console activated.

"Search all records for Spock, First Officer, _Enterprise_. Effective last seven days."

"Voice clearance not a match. Records unavailable."

"Manual override."

"Medical security code required."

She clearly spoke Dr. McCoy's clearance code into the computer. He was allowed to share it with her for the purposes of acquiring information needed to treat a patient, but she was under no illusions about the ethical implications of what she was doing now. Spock was dying, but she doubted Starfleet would accept spiritual and emotional death as an appropriate interpretation of the rule.

Several documents appeared on the screen. The simple words _Spock, S'chn T'gai, Commander, S179-276SP, Enterprise,_ filled the upper corner of each document. There were medical records, of course, specifically of the head injury he'd suffered last week. She shuddered; she'd tried not to show her horror at the deep gash, but the thick green blood coating the side of his face was so hard for her to look at.

She moved out of the ship's database and into the Starfleet archives.

_Please don't let me find anything. Please let me be imagining this…_

But of course, she wasn't. The document she had hoped not to find came up first on the screen. It was from Admiral Nogura himself, accepting Spock's resignation, thanking him for his nearly twenty years of service to the Federation, and conveying his regards to Ambassador and Lady Sarek.

Spock was leaving.

_That can't be right._ She reviewed the document again, then scrolled back into earlier documents. Spock's letter of resignation, dated just a few days ago, citing a "personal circumstance that makes my presence on Vulcan necessary."

He was leaving her. She stared blankly at the screen, her pain pressing so hard in her belly that she clasped a fist against it. Spock's pain echoed distantly but brutally in the depths of her mind. He couldn't leave her like this, not when she loved him like she did, not when she could help him, soothe him, heal him.

"Terminate."

The screen went dark and she pushed herself away from the doctor's desk. She walked heavily down the medical corridor to her own quarters and entered without looking up. Her simple, elegant apartment usually gave her peace after a long day in Sickbay, but now she didn't see her surroundings at all. She sat down on her bed and began to pull off her boots.

_Something is wrong here._

Yes, he was leaving her, but she'd always known he would. She'd loved him before she'd been free to love him, when she was still committed to Roger, when he was still betrothed to that T'Pring, and from the moment he'd calmly worked his way inside her she'd begun to count down the days in the back of her head. A five-year mission didn't have that many of them.

No, she'd been prepared for her own heart to break, but not for his. It didn't hurt _her_ less, but somehow she had taken comfort in knowing that this separation wouldn't cause _him_ to suffer. He'd suffered so much in his life, and she only wanted happiness for him. As for her own unhappiness…well, she'd deal with that tomorrow.

_Tomorrow is another day,_ she thought cynically. _Scarlett O'Hara would be proud._

She stripped off her leggings and blue medical dress, wondering idly whether Spock had ever noticed her legs in the short uniform. Not that it mattered; her legs were nice, but hardly enough to drive a man to the kind of pain Spock was in right now.

_Why is he leaving?_

It came to her as she pulled on a pair of comfortable jeans and her blue general-issue workout shirt. She'd known he'd leave _her_, but it never occurred to her that she'd leave _him_. The Captain. Her Spock would never walk out on his Captain, never abandon him before the mission was complete. Her Spock was loyal, _too _loyal, too willing to take pain on himself to spare Jim from suffering.

How many times had she seen it, stood in that Sickbay and treated Spock for injuries he got throwing himself in front of the Captain?

She sat down hard on the edge of the bed.

_He's doing it again._ She pressed her hands to her eyes, willing the rising sob to stay down. For some reason, Spock felt that if he stayed, Captain Kirk would suffer. _He's protecting the Captain. He's taking the bullet._

Waves of love overwhelmed her and she began to weep again. She wept with grief for her own loss, her own need for him, and for his loss, his pain. But she wept with joy, as well, and gratitude-it was enough of a miracle that such a man should exist at all, a man of such honor and faithfulness and strength, but to be given the privilege to love him was beyond anything a woman could ask for.

She indulged herself in a good long cry, the pain and stress of the last week dispersing with every wracking sob. She choked as she fought to catch her breath. She didn't want him to go, but he was Spock, and that was enough.

It was a long time before she collapsed against her pillow, still making hiccupping sounds as her sobs subsided. When she was truly calm, with a strange inner peace glowing faintly inside her, she rose from her bed and washed her face, hoping to wash away the traces of her crying. It wouldn't fool him, but at least she was presentable. She walked to the intercom and requested two mugs of tea, Spock's favorite kind, and when they arrived she hooked her fingers into the handles and stepped out her door.

_S'chn T'gai Spock. It would be illogical to protest against our natures…_

She wouldn't ask for anything from him. It was enough to love him. It was, after all, her nature.

8~8~8~8

"Come."

His door whooshed open. It would be the doctor, he knew, come to deliver his emotional opinion on Spock's foolishness once again. The thought warmed him, even as it wearied him. A treacherous part of him flared with the hope that it was Jim, that he'd somehow figured out Spock's plan and had come to stop him, forbid him, command him to stay.

He did not have another no inside him. Right now Jim could overpower his will with nothing more than that teasing grin. Perhaps even the doctor, in one of his too-frequent moments of insight, could find the knife to turn in Spock's heart, rendering him unable to carry out his plans.

He pushed those treacherous thoughts ruthlessly down into his belly, composed his face, and prepared to look up.

"Spock."

As hard as he tried, he could not keep that single eyebrow from expressing his surprise when he heard the soft, feminine voice. Saying his name…just his name.

_As is proper,_ he reminded himself harshly. _You are a civilian, and no longer outrank her._

He met her eyes, and noted when her own widened. What did he read in them? Shock? Joy? Grief? Pity?

He was not skilled at reading the emotional expressions of humans other than Jim, especially not those of women. They seemed to have too many of them for even a diligent observer to master, but it was apparent even to him that she had wept recently. He cleared his throat, attempting to answer her in kind.

"Christine."

He had called her that once before, in this room, when she had ministered to him in his distress.

She turned slightly away from him, and he saw the two mugs in her hands. She awkwardly pushed the door's button with her elbow before he could get on his feet to help her. But he'd managed it by the time she turned back in his direction.

"I thought you might need this." She handed him one of the thick mugs and he accepted it automatically. He bent his face toward the rising steam, huddling over it, wishing he could get warm enough.

_Patience. It's warm enough on Vulcan, and you shall be there forever._

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry to intrude," Christine said, her gentle blue eyes scanning his face. "I thought you might need some help, and I didn't want you to leave before I had a chance to say good-bye."

_She knows._

If she knew, then others might know, almost surely would. He had been so careful, and now Jim would know what was happening before Spock could accomplish it. His shoulders sagged with relief. Jim would know, and Jim would stop him from leaving. And all the destruction he had envisioned would come to pass. He could not bear it.

"Please sit."

He nodded toward the chair in front of his desk, the one that Jim always sprawled in whenever he came to Spock's quarters.

Christine smiled again and crossed the room to place her tea on the desk. She pulled out the chair he had indicated and sat, drawing her legs up beneath her. It was a childlike and supremely informal position. Spock raised an eyebrow; her casualness in his presence surprised him.

Of course, he had been aware that there was more to this woman than the highly efficient Starfleet medical officer he usually encountered. He had resided in her mind, entrusted his very essence to her, and found hers to be both emotionally warm and mentally sharp. And had she not been the victim of some of his most wretched failures? Flashes of her being controlled, used, by Parmen and Philana sped through his mind, alongside images of Jim being humiliated in terrible ways. And his own powerlessness, uselessness. He had never experienced such fury in his life. Contrary to all he believed about peace and the sanctity of life, he had experienced such a desire for the blood of another that it had taken him days of the most intense meditation and physical activity to suppress those feelings and to free himself of the urge to act on them.

_I haven't the power. I am deeply sorry. I have failed you._

It described his life reasonably well, in his estimation.

"Won't you sit too, Spock?"

He nodded stiffly.

"I know that you only have a few hours before you go," Christine said lightly. She glanced around his quarters. "Would you like some help packing?"

"No, thank you."

She nodded as though she'd expected him to say exactly that, but did not pursue the matter further. She sipped from her mug and simply allowed there to be quiet between them. How unusual for a human. And how unusual for him to need her to speak.

"Ms. Chapel," he said after a moment, and her eyebrow raised slightly. He was unwilling to hurt her further, so he began again. "Christine. May I ask how you knew about my imminent departure?"

She looked at him with an emotion he didn't understand; his face grew hot and he dropped his gaze. He studied the patterns of the steam rising from his mug.

"Do you mean, how did I know when your two closest friends haven't figured it out?"

"They do not know?"

"No, they don't."

He closed his eyes. They were not coming. Nobody would stop him. Relief and despair warred inside him, and he fought against the danger. He wanted to be stopped. And he could not allow it to happen.

Christine was silent for a moment. "I understand you better than you think, Spock. I have loved you as long as the Captain has, and in this case I am not blinded by my own pain."

He went very still. The raw edges of pain in his mind flared and he closed his eyes briefly. How many more people would he hurt by the mere fact of his existence? He _must_ leave; he could not bear both his own pain and the pain of others much longer.

She paused. "And I may have used one or two less than ethical means."

"I am sorry."

He estimated that twenty-nine percent of the words he had ever spoken to her consisted of the phrase _I am sorry. _

"For my misusing a security code?" She smiled. "No need. If I'm caught, I'll take the disciplinary action. It's worth it."

"I meant to say I am sorry I cannot-"

"I know," Christine said. "It's okay." She unfolded her legs from under her and leaned toward him. "I didn't come here to make a last ditch effort at getting you to return my feelings. But I'm also no longer ashamed to have you know them. I'll miss you when you're gone, but I want you to be at peace."

He templed his fingers in front of his mouth and stared at her. She returned his gaze calmly, peacefully, and he could read nothing but love in it. Perhaps he was inaccurate in his assessment, but she truly did not seem to be asking anything of him.

He did not know what to say.

Could he even promise her that he would find peace?

Insufficient data.

_Speculation, then, Mr. Spock?_

No. The best he could hope for was a relief of pain and for the safety of countless unknown others who would be at risk if he remained. It would have to be enough.

She leaned back into her chair and picked up her tea. Again, she let that silence fill the space between them, warm and undemanding.

"Has anyone ever given you a gift?"

"I do not understand."

She frowned. "You don't understand what a gift is?"

"I do not understand the term in this context. Please explain."

"What I mean is," she said slowly, "has anyone ever done something for you, or given something to you which you couldn't reciprocate. Something that was only for you to receive, not to pay back or owe sometime in the future."

He continued to study her, one eyebrow slightly raised. What was the purpose of this question?

"Okay," she said, evidently making another attempt. "Remember when we were on one of those Gamma planets, and the plants had those poison darts? And you didn't even think, you just jumped in front of the Captain so he didn't get hit?"

"I do not remember your presence on Gamma Trianguli VI."

"Dr. McCoy told me what happened. You gave the Captain a gift. Has anyone ever done something like that for you?"

He was tired of whatever game they were playing. He did not understand why humans could not just come out and say what they meant, or ask for what they needed. A simple yes or no would follow and end the matter satisfactorily. He did not have the patience or the will to continue this.

"Ms. Chapel, I-"

"Mr. Spock, I would like to ask for a gift from you."

8~8~8~8

Until about five seconds ago, when she'd seen his face crumple with a sort of ageless exhaustion, she had planned to say, "I want to give you a gift."

To anyone else it would have sounded like a sexual overture-and she wasn't counting that out. If Spock needed her in that way, if she could possibly bring him comfort with her body, it was his for the asking.

But seeing that look, that broken, worn-down look on his face, she'd gone with her instinct. It was her nurturing instinct, the one that made her such a good nurse. Spock would not accept help from her; at this point she doubted there was anyone in the world he would accept help from. Before last week, he might have been persuaded, or harassed, into letting Captain Kirk or Dr. McCoy help him, but they were no longer options. At least in Spock's mind.

So she turned her request around. It was an old and rather disingenuous nursing technique: _If you don't take your medicine, I'll get in a lot of trouble, so please help me out._

Besides, if he granted her request, it _would_ be a gift, and she would cherish it forever.

_You never give up, do you?_

Spock closed his eyes and rested his forehead briefly on his fingertips. "I have nothing left to give."

His voice was so bleak, her chest ached. Nobody she'd ever known had so much to give or gave it so freely.

"Of course you do."

Oh, it was hard to keep her voice smooth, light. She wanted to crawl into his lap and hold him until she melted away some of his self-loathing with her love.

"I fail to see anything here of value to you," Spock said, opening his eyes.

_You, my darling Spock. You are of more value to me than anyone I have ever known._

"Will you let me bear some of your burden tonight?"

His face was utterly impassive, completely blank. Too blank. She had shocked him.

"I do not understand."

She laughed gently. "Spock, you've said that twice in the last five minutes. That must be a first."

"I usually attempt to avoid saying it, even if it is true at the time."

"You are exhausted and full of grief," she said. She leaned forward across the desk, reaching out a hand toward him but not touching him. "What you are about to do is costing you more than you will admit. I can't save you from that." _Though I would, my love._ "You know that I love you, so allow me to do something, one thing, so that when you leave I might feel like I have been useful to you, instead of always making you uncomfortable."

She _had_ made him uncomfortable, she could see that. It wasn't strong enough to echo in her mind, but it was written plainly on his carefully blank face. She set her mug on the desk and walked to the doorway of his sleeping area. He hadn't even begun to pack; everything was still on the shelf that bordered his bed, poised carefully against the heavy red curtains.

"Does the red remind you of Vulcan? I've heard that the sky there is red. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Do you really think he'll be better off without you?"

The air grew thick with tension and pain. She certainly felt the echo of that.

"In the end, yes."

She didn't move from her position in his doorway, but looked back over her shoulder. "Would you tell me what happened? Nobody can believe that something has come between you two…well, you three, because I can tell you that Dr. McCoy is plenty furious at you both."

"He should not be angry at the Captain," Spock said fiercely. "All events leading up to my decision to depart were my responsibility and my fault."

"That's not how the doctor sees it."

He compressed his lips. "He is mistaken."

Of course. Even now, with a friendship for the ages unraveling in plain sight, he would hear no criticism of his Captain.

She knew she was wearying him with her questions, her very presence, but he needed her tonight, even if he didn't know it. He was so immersed in pain and duty-and pretending not to feel them-he couldn't see how much he needed to be taken care of.

"Will you come in here, Spock?" She turned to face him fully. "I won't make any advances or do anything that will make you uncomfortable." She walked slowly toward him where he sat stiffly behind his desk. He looked like he wished he were anywhere but here. Someone who didn't know him so well would think that he either felt nothing, or that he was mildly annoyed.

She stepped behind the desk and took one of his hands. His eyes flicked to hers. Everybody knew not to touch Vulcans' hands; they were touch telepaths and it was a terrible intrusion, reserved for the most intimate relationships. She could only imagine the onslaught of conflicted thoughts and emotions a Vulcan would have to withstand, so she blocked all those from her own mind.

_He should be proud,_ she thought wryly.

Spock raised one eyebrow slightly. She didn't know what he read in her face, but he allowed her to take his hand. A gift in itself. She stepped backward, pulling him with her so he was forced to stand, which he did slowly, stiffly, as though that lean, muscular body were a hundred years older.

_Don't start thinking about his lean muscular body! _She was amused at herself, and slightly embarrassed that he should have felt her tremor of desire when she was trying hard not to burden him with her own needs. But Spock, ever the gentleman, did not pull away his hand or give any indication that he had perceived it.

She drew him into the sleeping quarters and nudged him until he sat on the edge of the bed, the black of his attire dark against the sheen of the deep red cover.

8~8~8~8

It was not like him to be obedient, nor to allow himself to be soothed, but his mind was tired. He was aware of the effects of his own fatigue: the delayed reactions, the reluctance to make any more decisions, the slump in his posture.

Allowing Christine to stay.

Sitting on the bed because she asked him to.

Not drawing his hand back in the first place, and then not drawing it back again when he felt her response to touching him.

It was illogical for him to allow all these things, but fatigue and mental stress had been known to cause illogical behavior even in the most assiduous Vulcan. That tendency would be pressed out of him during the Kolinahr.

Of course, if she did indeed plan to make sexual advances, he would have to respectfully decline.

He did not have the energy.

She knelt in front of him, between his knees. Reflexively, he leaned back, away from her. What was she doing?

"Relax, please," she said softly. "I've only asked you for one thing, my dear friend. I only want to care for you."

_My dear friend…_

She asked only to be his friend. True friendship was rare for a Vulcan; he doubted he could ever offer or accept it again. In any case, the Kolinahr would take the choice out of his hands. He took a deep breath and willed the oxygen into the cells of his muscles, unknotting the aching knots of tension and pain that had worked their way so deeply over the past week. It was not easily done, but Vulcans had as much control over their physiology as they had over their minds.

For the most part.

Christine had never asked him for anything before.

No, that was not accurate.

_Make them stop! I'm so ashamed. Please make them stop!_

_I haven't the power. I have failed you._

"I do not know how to grant what you have asked."

She sighed, her eyes fluttering closed. Slowly, as though he were a wounded sehlat who might strike out at any moment, she raised her hands, resting them gently on his knees. And why would she not expect him to strike out? He had done so at other times when all she wanted was to care for him.

"Spock." Her voice was a whisper. "Spock, close your eyes."

Her hands were warm-a welcome feeling to one who could never quite grow accustomed to Earth-referent temperatures. He did not understand what she was doing, but nevertheless, he closed his eyes.

For many moments she did not move. She merely knelt before him with her warm hands resting on his thighs. And yet, a curious thing began to happen. It was as though the warmth was spreading from her hands into the rest of his body. The tense feeling of never being warm enough, a sensation that had rarely been absent for nearly twenty years, began to dissipate and the muscles began to relax throughout his body.

His shoulders slumped slightly as the tension slowly, so slowly, drained out of them. He began to breathe more deeply. The pain that was constantly lodged in his belly and his chest did not dissipate, however; in fact, it seemed to bloom, as though the only thing that had kept it in check was him tensing all the muscles around it. It was a star of agony about to go supernova and pull everything he was into a black hole. He tried to repress it, to limit it with his mind, but it did not originate in his mind, so his mental powers had no effect.

"Please…"

"It's all right," she said soothingly. "I know it hurts. I know it does. It's right to hurt when you've truly loved."

The warmth in him, her warmth, began to flow through him, and all he could think of was Jim and McCoy. He had failed them, as a comrade and as a friend. He was walking away, letting Jim believe it was his own fault, and letting McCoy be torn apart for having stood between them with a hand out to each. He saw again the fury and contempt in his Captain's eyes, the disdain on his too-expressive face-for him. He saw the shock and pain on McCoy's face as the seismic shift of a ruptured friendship shook them all.

And he could not stand with them. He could not place a gentle hand on Jim's head and bid him to forget his pain. He could not provoke the doctor's temper and replace heartache with anger-and therefore action-as he had done so many times.

The door in his mind, the one behind which Jim stood beating with his fists, shuddered. Spock shuddered at the same time, his shoulders shaking with the force of Jim's efforts to break it down. He saw clearly for the first time that pain-his fiery burning pain of heart and mind, his friends' shattered pain of devastation and shock-was the right emotional response to the end of the most important experience he could ever, would ever, have. The pain of now affirmed the depth of what he had known before. If it were not so difficult, it would mean that the bond between them all, but especially his own feelings toward his Captain, was not as deep, solid, or real as he had thought.

But his pain testified to it. It was real, and it was not fading. And he was turning his back on it. He must.

And though Christine's warm presence soothed him, he did not wish the pain to be gone. That would happen soon enough.

"Spock."

He opened his eyes slowly to look into hers, now open and gazing up at him.

"I'm going to hold your hands now. I know it still hurts, and I can't take away your pain." She hesitated. "I haven't the power. And I wouldn't anyway."

8~8~8~8

Christine ran her hands up his long legs to where his hands rested on each thigh. Desire was there, always, but she breathed deeply and controlled it, letting it simmer instead of boil over. Instead, she opened her heart to love, her own love, the love she had felt for him almost from the moment she'd first seen him.

She turned his hands over so that they rested palm up, and she wondered why he allowed it. Any of it, really. What a gift, to be allowed to touch him. She laid her palms against his, in the position of maximum telepathic contact.

He frowned and pulled back slightly, reflexively. This was intimate contact, she knew that, knew that he might not allow her such a liberty.

_For so long I've wanted to be close to you…_

"Christine."

Her shoulders slumped. He was going to tell her to stop, that it was not appropriate for them to be alone in his quarters with their hands joined.

"No, it is not that," Spock said. "It is…pleasant, to have you here. I will be sorry to leave your friendship behind."

"You can't leave my friendship behind," she said. "It's yours. It will always be there."

"Do not make rash promises, Nurse." His voice was calm and firm, but she heard the bitterness buried beneath it.

"It's not just me." Her knees were beginning to hurt, so she released his hands, stood carefully and then sat beside him on the bed. In that short moment, his hands balled into tense fists. She gently massaged them open again and turned sideways on the bed so that she could recapture his hands. She gently laced her fingers through his.

"I do not understand."

"You have the friendship of everyone in this crew, especially the bridge officers and the science and engineering departments. There'll be a lot of sadness when you leave." She shrugged. "You'll be missed."

Pain flashed subtly across his features, but she saw it. "I will not be permitted to miss you in return."

It hurt a little, but she forced herself to squeeze his hands. "I'm not asking you to."

But she wondered at the way he had phrased his objection. He would not be _permitted_ to miss them?

8~8~8~8

He was making the right choice. Emotions were not only inconvenient, they were inefficient, and as he knew to his cost, dangerous. Even for him, a trained Vulcan who had himself under control-right now he felt so many opposing emotions at the same time it was impossible even to pick the most constructive and act on it.

Christine herself was the source of many of those emotions. In the face of her generosity he felt the most frustrating combination of guilt and…he speculated that it could be called comfort. Love radiated from her palms into him, traveling through him, providing that comfort that felt so strange. Had he ever known someone who loved him so unreservedly? His mother, he supposed, but he pushed thoughts of his mother away quickly. She was yet another person he would hurt, and if Christine was right, all this pain rippled out from one source-him-to all those he cared for, respected, and yes, even loved.

If he made himself unresponsive to love, they would stop loving him, and thus he would protect them.

He ached inside, physically ached in the muscles of his neck, stomach, and chest, at the thought of losing Jim's esteem. Whatever else could be said of Jim Kirk, the man had a heart as big as space, and loved those whom he loved unreservedly. And suffered for it deeply, every time.

And of all that could happen in the wide universe, nothing brought Spock more pain than to see his Captain suffer. He could not bear to see that open heart punished.

Christine pulled her hands gently from his, and he blinked. Had he fallen asleep? That seemed unlikely; he had too much control of his own physiology for that.

"It's all right," she said quietly. She took one hand in both of her smaller ones and began to massage, pressing her fingers into the vulnerable spot in the center of his palm, moving in circles with perfect pressure. Her warm, steady emotions, pure unselfish love with only a slight, distant hint of desire, continued to bathe him from the inside out, and he experienced the utterly illogical urge to lie down on the bed and draw her into his arms. Just to hold and be held.

It was out of the question, of course. She was among those he was trying to protect from his badly controlled emotions. And he had to prepare for his departure.

Christine hummed as she rubbed his hands. Her thoughts were only of him, of love, and of the tune of her song, though he was aware that if he exerted any telepathic pressure at all, he could see beneath that peaceful surface to whatever thoughts she kept concealed there.

He chose not to exert that pressure.

"_Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night. Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night."_

Her soft alto voice wrapped around him and both sets of eyelids fluttered closed. He selfishly accepted her gift-which she had called _his_ gift to _her_. He suspected that nurses had ways of phrasing things that would help them get their way with their patients. He knew doctors did.

"_Soft the drowsy hours are creeping, hill and dale in slumber sleeping. I my loved ones' watch am keeping, all through the night."_

He felt briefly as though he were falling, but the hands that were bringing him such warmth still held him. He dreamed of love and loss and the agony of watching friends suffer. He dreamed of the peace of emptiness and the healing hands of a woman who loved him.

He dreamed of standing on the wrong side of a closed door, while someone pounded furiously on the other side.

8~8~8~8

She didn't know what had made her sing him a lullaby, but since he seemed to be asleep, it was obviously the right choice. The echo of him deep in her mind increased as she sat with him, palm to palm, and it was almost more than she could take. He was hurting so badly. Even holding the hands of a telepath, she couldn't read minds, but she could read Spock as clearly as if he had written the words down for her.

He didn't want to go. He couldn't stay. Jim must be protected at all costs.

She didn't understand what was going on. Slowly, careful not to jar him, she slid her hands out from under his. The echo of pain in her mind eased and she exhaled deeply.

_That's a relief. _

Now that she was not touching his hands, she allowed herself to feel all the emotions she'd suppressed before. Desire, yes…God, yes. The man looked entirely delicious in all black, she could just-

_Well, never mind that, Christine. It's not going to happen._

And there was wistfulness, too. She wanted to lie down next to him and be welcome there, to feel that strong arm come around her and pull her in closer, to rest her head on his muscular shoulder and know he would be there when she awoke.

He'd been inside her mind-really the most intimate contact two people could have. Not a mind-meld; he'd actually been inside her, her body had made room for him to come inside. It was more intimate than making love-not that she had any way to compare what that would be like with Spock. Maybe for Vulcans it was a mind-body thing.

But more than any other feeling, she wanted to protect him from this pain, to carry some of it herself, more like a mother than a lover. And so she sang to him like she would a hurting child.

"Well, that's that," she whispered. Giving herself one last indulgence, she bent and kissed his temple. His upswept eyebrow furrowed, but he didn't wake up.

She stood and moved quietly into his sitting room. For someone who was leaving in a few hours, he certainly hadn't done anything to prepare himself. Nothing at all was packed.

_He doesn't think he's really going._ She gasped softly and brought a hand up to cover her mouth. _He's sure that Jim will stop him. He believes that Dr. McCoy will come storming in and ask him if he's out of his Vulcan mind. _

And there would ultimately be no need to pack.

But neither the Captain nor the doctor knew he was leaving.

_For God's sake, Spock! If you want them to stop you in the nick of time, you have to leave them at least a small clue!_

But he hadn't left a clue. She'd had to commit a criminal act in order to find out his plans, and she'd only known to do that because she'd seen him struggling with his emotions in Sickbay. Neither Captain Kirk nor Doctor McCoy would hesitate to break into the computers if it was necessary, but they wouldn't know that it was something they should do.

And Spock had arranged it that way.

Which meant that he had hoped they would try to stop him, but he knew it was better if they didn't.

_Mr. Spock, you are the most complicated man I have ever met!_

Well, if he was determined to go, she could at least give him a hand. He may want to stay, but he wouldn't, because as always, he was protecting his Captain, and he'd suffer the separation if it meant Jim's safety. And if he was going to go, he needed a few things packed.

She slid open the door to his closet and found his regulation duffel bag lying neatly on one of the shelves. She pulled it out and set it on the desk, then pulled out all his blue science department shirts-between being injured and held prisoner, how many of these had he gone through? Whatever the answer to that, five identical uniform shirts hung in his closet now, next to two of the satiny blue dress uniform shirts and several pairs of standard black trousers.

There were no medals on the dress uniforms, though. She supposed that he wouldn't leave them on the uniform, but put them away for safe keeping. She slid the dress shirts in, then the pants on the other side. The extra boots and the athletic shoes came next, and she shifted them to the bottom. A few Vulcan-style tunics-what material was that? It was so light; perfect, she supposed for that hot, dry planet.

She moved to his dresser and emptied it of solid black t-shirts, black Starfleet-issue briefs, and all the neatly folded socks she could find.

And _there_ were his medals. She pulled them from the narrow top drawer designed to hold such small things and held them up one at a time, letting them glint off the red light before setting each one down again. The Vulcan Scientific Legion of Honor, inscribed in a writing she didn't read, and the Vulcan IDIC. For a culture that had belittled him for his impure blood, they sure were quick to claim him when he succeeded.

The Starfleet awards of valor, two of them.

_That doesn't seem right. There should be dozens. _

She slowly set them back in their black velvet cases. She wouldn't pack them in his duffel; if he was retiring his commission from Starfleet, he wouldn't immediately need them in whatever path he followed next.

A few toiletries, a few books from his bedside table-she resisted the urge to kiss him again, he really needed his sleep-the computer tapes that held his personal logs.

She dimmed the lights and left the room. After a quick trip to Requisitions for shipping containers, she packed the rest of his things, including the deep red velvet curtains. She wasn't sure what to do with his few artifacts, and winced when the ceremonial bells accidentally rang softly. She had to be extremely careful with the ancient Vulcan weapons, one of which she knew from her own research had caused the fine, nearly invisible scar that stretched horizontally across Captain Kirk's chest.

It must pain Spock to see that scar. Dr. McCoy had healed it so expertly that nobody would know it was there if they didn't know it was there, but Spock knew. Being a Vulcan, he would see what others wouldn't. And being Spock, he would never forgive himself for allowing any harm to come to the Captain, much less harming the Captain himself.

And being both, he would never see that Captain Kirk didn't hold that injury against Spock for a moment. It had never occurred to the Captain to be angry or hurt that Spock had struck out at him in that moment. Christine hadn't been there, of course-probably a good thing, because she would have clawed that Vulcan bitch's slanted eyes out-but she had pieced together enough of the story to get the gist of it.

And she had seen Spock's face when he had thought his Captain and his friend was dead.

_Oh my God. That's what he looked like tonight. _

She set the lirpa gently on the desk and sat down shakily. He had looked like Captain Kirk had died, rather than poor DeSalle, and that it had been his own fault. But she'd been there that day in Sickbay attempting to clean the Captain's cuts when the Captain himself had dealt the blow Spock was still reeling from.

_Get the hell out of here. I can't stand the sight of you. _

And would she see that other look, like the sun coming out, if Captain Kirk got over being a complete fool long enough to come to Spock and ask him to stay?

_Probably,_ she decided. Her fingers stroked the shaft of the lirpa, studying the wicked blade at one end, the smooth, blunt club at the other. She briefly toyed with the idea of giving the Captain a more visible scar to pay him back for how he'd treated Spock, but in the end she figured that a hard smack across the face would be more satisfying.

The court martial might be worth it.

She stood and made her way around the crates to the divider between the rooms. It didn't look like his anymore. The walls were that bare Starfleet-issue steel blue-gray instead of the vivid Vulcan red. The shelf was empty of his few artifacts. Only Spock remained, sleeping deeply on his side, a long lean black line against the red of his bed cover in the dim light.

And soon Spock would be gone.

Her eyes travelled over his body. He was so tall, which suited her, since she was tall for a woman. His shoulders seemed slender, but she'd seen him shirtless often enough-in a purely medical capacity-to know that his muscles were long and well-defined. She loved his long legs and his strong back, and yes, the curve of his backside.

She always knew she would lose him, but somehow she'd never thought the Captain _could _lose him. It was just not in Spock's nature to go. And yet, remembering the Captain's cruel words, remembering the shattered look on Spock's face, remembering the throbbing pain that echoed like wind in a canyon in the space he'd created in her mind, she was glad he was going. Jim Kirk _deserved _to lose him.

He'd had a week to do everything, anything, to heal the wound he'd inflicted on Spock, to affirm that he trusted him, but he hadn't done it; she knew he hadn't, because Spock was the walking wounded if she'd ever seen it.

As quietly as she could, she dragged the crates out into the corridor, then called a yeoman to deliver them to her quarters. Spock needed his sleep, but would have to wake up in an hour or so in order to catch his shuttlecraft. And that gave her just enough time.

8~8~8~8

The dreams were disturbing, disjointed…emotional. He knew he was dreaming, and he knew that the faces that appeared one after another were symbols, rather than characters in a plot. But they were symbols of his feelings-his mother represented tenderness and determination, his father evoked Spock's need for his Vulcan parent's parsimonious approval, the doctor provoked both amusement and jealousy, Zarabeth's beautiful face vibrated with the force of their mutual loneliness.

And Jim continued to pound on the door of their mental bond, seething, issuing commands, demanding to be let in so they could put this right once and for all. Jim, who represented an emotional bond Spock had never thought he could attain, the height of human glory lived for five years by someone merely half-human, the best of human nature captured in the legendary bond of the friendship between men. Between warriors.

And Jim, who must be left in the cold, shut out deliberately for his own safety and the safety of others, who represented every reason Vulcans had suppressed emotion and turned to logic, for only in logic could there be IDIC, and only in logic could one say with any degree of conviction that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one.

Logically, one could not add, "unless the one is my _t'hy'la_."

A good man was dead, and Spock remembered it even in his dreams, where DeSalle walked through the background in different colored shirts. Dead, because Spock had not had the will to keep the door shut and keep Jim and his friendship on the other side.

The symbols and the faces that revealed them had the power of newly-sharpened lirpa, knocking him flat and slicing him to pieces. Yet he could not awaken himself; he had neither slept nor eaten in over a week, and his sleeping mind could not master his dreams.

Would dreams still trouble him at Gol?

He rolled over restlessly and flung an arm over his head. The faces began to fade, replaced by a soft, warm voice.

_Shhh…don't be troubled. It's all right._

A warm hand slipped into his and rested there, palm to palm. Somehow, through the touch of that dream-hand, the feelings from his dreams calmed, dissipated to echoes, until he knew himself loved.

It was pleasant. It did not heal his grief, did not entirely shut out the pressure of Jim pushing against his mind, or the memory of Jim's contemptuous look. It was simply pleasant, and in a week comprised of more guilt, doubt, hurt and grief than he had ever known, a pleasant touch was more than just…nice, as the humans would say.

_You have to wake up now, my darling Spock._ Soft lips pressed to his forehead. _I love you._ _May you find peace._

Her wish for him seemed unlikely to come to pass, at least not without several years of the discipline he had yet to begin. It seemed even less likely when the smooth hand slid from his and the warm swell of love receded. He thought he heard a soft sob and the whooshing closed of his door.

He exhaled deeply and opened his eyes.

The room was bright, with white lights glowing where he had once installed red. He sat up slowly and took in the changes instantly. His quarters were bare, with almost nothing to indicate that he had lived here.

_It is my sincere wish that you live long and prosper, an undertaking which should prove feasible for you to attain now that I have removed my deleterious presence from your life._

His presence would certainly be removed now. There would be no artifact, no personal log, no physical memory of Spock left on the starship _Enterprise._

_It is right that it should be so._

Despite his wish that he could leave something of himself to convey to Jim that he still esteemed and respected him above all others, it would be wrong to do so. Jim would take it exactly as it would be meant-as a sign that Spock's heart was not in this break, and that Spock only desired to be persuaded to stay.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and noticed two things simultaneously. A covered dish sat on his night stand and a piece of paper was propped next to it. He reached for the paper.

_Dear Spock,_

_Please eat. You haven't eaten since DeSalle's death and you have a long journey ahead of you._

How did she know that he had not eaten? He glanced up at the covered dish, and nearly gave a sad smile as he intuited what it must surely contain. Lifting the lid, he confirmed his hypothesis. The still-steaming bowl of homemade plomeek soup smelled appetizing, and he put down the letter in order to take the bowl from the table and eat a few spoonfuls.

It tasted good. Even if he were successful at Gol, he suspected that the flavor of plomeek soup would always evoke the memory of Christine.

Yet another loss. That was also good; he must lose them all to save them. What if next time it were Christine's life he forfeited in order to save Jim? He thought of Parmen and the humiliations the man had inflicted upon Kirk, and then also upon two of the women he respected most. His face burned with shame when he even entertained the thought that he might have allowed those women to suffer or even die in order to stop the mortification being visited upon Jim.

It didn't take much soup to fill his shriveled stomach, so he set the bowl on his nightstand again and picked up Christine's letter.

_I have taken the liberty of packing your things. You must have a very good reason for leaving the Enterprise, so I don't want to second guess you, but if you decide to stay after all, I will gladly help you put them all back in their proper places. If you decide to go after all, I will send your things to your parents' address on Vulcan. If I have overstepped the bounds of friendship, please forgive me. I only wished to ease your burden._

That explained why his quarters were as bare and impersonal as they'd been on the day he'd moved in as First Officer four point eight one years ago. And somehow, her instinct toward him was correct. The thought of someone else's hands on his very personal artifacts did make him uncomfortable, but he was so weary that the idea of addressing the practicalities of his choice _had_ been burdensome. Now, because of Christine and the care she had for all intents and purposed forced upon him, he felt-

He had to stop to consider.

Not happy. There was not now, nor would there ever be, happiness. Now, he was leaving the life he loved and the people he loved. And later, happiness and all its implications would be forbidden.

Not peaceful, either, though she had wished him peace. The conflicts of love, friendship, duty and guilt still warred within him. He still glanced at the door hoping that Jim would burst through it in an offended, protective fury, a force of nature Spock could no more defy than he could a Vulcan sandfire storm, and use every bit of personal and military authority to forbid him to go.

_That's an order, mister._

He clenched his jaw against the nearly overwhelming temptation to open the mind link, to see if Jim was planning something, planning to stop him, or even further punish him for his failure.

_No. That way lies madness. Or, at best, dishonor._

He wrenched his thoughts away from Jim and back to Christine.

Perhaps the feeling was as though he were crossing the desert, stumbling in the heat to get to one of Vulcan's harsh, craggy mountains…that he would then have to find the strength to climb. And Christine had given him a drink of water at the base of that mountain.

But he himself still had to gird his strength and climb.

He turned his mind away from the daunting image and back to Christine's note.

_I only know pieces of the events of the week past, and I have some sense (more than you may understand) of your grief over Lt. DeSalle's death. I grieve with thee. I also know that there's only one thing that would drive you from your ship and your duty. My influence is small on this ship, but I promise I will watch over him-both of them-to the best of my ability. _

Spock's eyebrow rose. She did not see herself clearly. Her influence, the influence of the warm care she gave everyone, was far greater than she knew.

_I may never see you again, my dear friend. I wish you peace and long life._

_Christine_

Spock sat still for a moment. His respect for Christine, always great, increased. Few people were so insightful, so careful. Fewer still were able to find the right words at the right time-he himself was abysmally deficient in that skill. If circumstances had been different, she might indeed have made an excellent life companion.

He assumed she still would. For someone else. It was as it should be.

He folded the note carefully as he stood, then slipped it into his pocket. He would, of course, have to dispose of it eventually, but at the moment, it was all that gave him strength to begin the unmerciful climb up that mountain and sever himself from his _t'hy'la_, his friends, and his ship.

It was time to depart.

**Epilogue **

Christine sipped another cup of tea and stared at the computer monitor.

The engineering reports glowed on the screen, with the shuttle schedule highlighted in an open window. Right now it read _Long-Range Shuttle, Status: Preparing for Departure._

She slowly leaned back against the chair, trying to ease the muscles in her neck, but didn't take her eyes off the screen. For the first time she was grateful that the link between her and Spock was no more than a faint and distant echo, because even so, she felt the throbs of despair. She could not imagine what he must be feeling, or what someone more intimately linked to him would be going through now.

_Long-Range Shuttle, Status: Departed_

She closed her eyes.

He was gone.

Her hands began to shake and she put her mug down on the desk without opening her eyes. Grief geysered up in her, but she didn't want to cry, not again, not for the third time in one night.

Though he was worth every tear.

It took a few minutes to get ahold of herself, but she finally drew a shaky breath and opened her eyes. Carefully, almost like she were sick or drunk, she braced her hands on her desk and stood.

She was surrounded by his things, of course. She could open any crate and smell him, that faint aroma of incense and clean masculinity that she greedily sought whenever she was lucky enough to stand that close to him.

But not now. It would just be too much. She picked her way past the crates intending to simply find her pajamas, when a flash of white near the door caught her eye.

Her breath quickened as she bent to pick up the folded sheet of paper. It was his writing on the outside, his strong, firm hand. It read simply, _Christine._

She unfolded the single sheet.

_I thank you for your gift. I shall treasure it always. Live long and prosper._

_S'chn T'gai Spock_


End file.
